I recently got an email from a reader that said “I wish I could live inside of your head for a day just so I could see what is going on in there. I bet it would be a blast!” Although I am quoting from her, I will not publish her name because she was most likely drunk or high when she wrote that and I don’t want to embarrass her. Although I do admit that for the most part my head is a happy place to be, it is also sometimes an annoying and bitchy place to be, as you’ve seen in my PMS postings. But recently I have been trying to focus on the happy place. Even when bloated, bitchy and crampy. I call my happy place “Pattitopia” and it totally rocks.

When my son gets annoyed with people, he teleports. He just closes his eyes and says “I’m teleporting. I’m teleporting.” I don’t think that technically it’s working since he’s still standing in front of me, but I just let him do his thing because (a) I think it’s awesome, and (b) I can totally relate. I try to pretend I’m living in Pattitopia every day, although sometimes people or things annoy me enough to drag me back to reality.

After an incident at Academy the other day where some lady was totally freaking out about a mis-marked price and being a complete buzzkill to anyone within earshot, I realized that the public needs to learn about this wonderful world and it’s laws. You may see me out in the neighborhood, going about my business…but inside my head, I’m in Pattitopia. The way it works is as follows: If you are within ten feet of me you are a visitor in Pattitopia and therefore must follow the rules and regulations of Pattitopia. Ten feet is more than close enough to drag me into your moody web and I’m just not having it, so if you plan to get that close, slap a smile on your face and keep it light. Now, I completely admit that I get bitchy about stuff just like anyone else (sometimes more than anyone else), and if I am bitching about something you are welcome to join in, but you are not allowed to start the bitching unless it is about something you know I hate, i.e. Glen Beck, Paris Hilton, Mariah Carey, Ann Coulter and guys wearing skinny jeans. In Pattitopia, I set the tone. My topia, my rules.

Pattitopia has a fixed population of 3 humans and 4 animals. The humans are of course, me and my sweet Paul Rudd, plus my bodyguard, Spunk. Spunk is a friend from high school who is a bodybuilder with arms the size of my thighs, and he has agreed to protect me exactly like Kevin Costner protected Whitney Houston in that movie where she sang the hell outta that I will always love you song. The only differences are that the colors are reversed and I am not a crack whore.

The 4 animals in Pattitopia consist of finger monkey, teacup pig, mini hedgehog and pee wee pony. Eventually I will allow each pet to have a mate so they can get busy making me more tiny animals, but for now they are all innocent and single. And someday I will also have a dolphin. As soon as the lazy animal biologists of the world figure out how to make a miniature one.

The weather is always sunny in Pattitopia. The average temperature is a comfortable 75-80 degrees. We have white sandy beaches, palm trees and beautiful mountains and forests. There are bottomless margaritas, wine and Pacifico. Paul likes dark beer, but it’s not allowed in Pattitopia and even though I love him, he’s just gonna have to deal because it’s not called Paulatopia. The only foods allowed are Mexican food and Reeses Peanut Butter Cups and they are miraculously fat-free.

In Pattitopia The Brady Bunch and Laverne and Shirley are always on television. Except for the Cousin Oliver years on The Bunch…those sucked. My friend Jeff is allowed at any time as long as he’s wearing a sleeveless shirt and riding his bike. My husband is allowed at any time as long as he is in “Vacation Steve” mode, which is his super- relaxed and fun mode. Ethan is allowed as long as he doesn’t fart or whine. My friend Neal is allowed at any time as long as he’s willing to P-Hug. There is lots of P-Hugging in Pattitopia, and as a visitor you do not have the right to refuse a P-Hug. If I feel that you are leaning out of the P-Hug, you will have to deal with Spunk.

Even though it is warm, I am always allowed to wear my Beeker hat in Pattitopia, and even though it is dorky and I look completely idiotic in it, everyone must tell me I look amazing. There is no John Denver music, photos, or video allowed. Under no circumstances is math allowed in Pattitopia. While birds are more that welcome to do flybys in Pattitopia, they are not permitted to land or to poop. And under no circumstances are crows allowed anywhere near Pattitopia due to the fact that a few years ago one tried to peck me to death when I was at the Zoo. It repeatedly dive-bombed me and pecked my noggin until it drew blood. Crows are assholes.

Day passes are free to Pattitopia. When you come into the 10 foot circle you are accepting a pass and agreeing to my rules and regulations. While I welcome and love visitors, if you start to sing that Rocky Mountain High song, talk bad about Johnny Bravo, or just plain annoy me, you will receive a citation. If the trouble continues, you are out. A world needs rules to run smoothly. That is one of the few things my brain retained from my Government class in college. That and the fact that seeing your professor in a kilt is in no way pleasurable.

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